


Sentinels

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Gen, No Plot/Plotless, Sleepy Boys, only cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23250508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: Sentinel: one whose job it is to wait and watch.No plot whatsoever, just cuddles for my boys and a little fluff for me.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Comments: 60
Kudos: 448





	Sentinels

He returned in the middle of the night. That happened a lot, in this family. Returns were made in deep shadow, the halls of the Manor still and shrouded, so late the sun still slept but the hour was rightfully morning.

All was still. He wouldn’t know yet who was here and who was away, what had changed in their time apart, what victories and tragedies awaited recounting. There were always victories, and there were always tragedies. It was their life.

Bruce’s only consolation was that he would have been warned had the tragedy been more than he could bear. That was the benefit to forming a team with a group of superhumans—somehow, some way, they found him when they truly needed to. So that fear, the one that nibbled at the corner of his soul like a pesky, flashing minnow every time he was away from Gotham, the one that insisted the house was quiet not because it was late but because everyone was dead, could be ignored.

Still, he held his breath as he shucked off one boot and then the other, shifting the battered duffel from shoulder to shoulder to counteract his balance. Upstairs he would be able to walk the hall to his bedroom and count the cracked doors. Cracked meant occupied, filled with peaceful breaths and resting hearts. Closed meant empty, abandoned, neglected, and only one door remained shut in this house. That one would dig claws into his heart as he passed it, but if the rest remained ajar, Bruce would be able to breathe as he tumbled into bed. Until then, he would remain tense, afraid that somehow this would be the time they failed to prepare him.

Bruce rubbed at gritty eyes and refused to look at the hall clock as he passed through the foyer. He needed no reminders of how late it was, how long he had been gone. It had been a long, grueling month. He usually found undercover missions thrilling, a chance to shed the heavy cowl and heavier Wayne history to live in someone else’s skin for a time. But this one had just been hard—dirty, taxing, and depressing. The work done had been essential, and he was glad it was over.

He was glad to be home.

Two sets of eyes glinted at him from the den. Bruce pivoted, silent path diverted. The black mass on the floor rose first, green-hollow lenses turning against the dim light to settle into soft, deep brown. Bruce cupped his hand, and Titus pressed his cold, wet nose against Bruce’s palm. A whuffling sniff, and then an accepting snort before Titus pulled away.

Bruce gave the dog’s head a pat before extending his knuckles. The golden eyes of the cat flashed from its perch on the sofa arm as feline Alfred bent his head to inspect Bruce’s hand.

“What are you two doing down here?” Bruce asked, whisper so soft as to be inaudible, but both animals’ ears swiveled.

The lump on the couch was the reason they were here, each perched like sentinels over their charge. Arkham itself could have stormed the Manor, and they would not have gotten past these faithful pets. Bruce gave them each a scritch behind the ears, then knelt next to the couch, grimacing only slightly at the way his knees popped and crackled on the way down.

There was a time in the not-too-distant past that Bruce would not have been able to rest his hand on Damian’s head. One did not live with assassins and wake sweetly. Even now, Bruce was poised to snatch his hand away and spring out of range. But he tousled his boy’s hair, thumb rubbing gently into warm scalp, and Damian only shifted sleepily in response.

“Damian.”

At the low rumble, one green eye dragged open, its partner still smushed against the couch cushion, and drifted hazily until its gaze landed on Bruce.

“Fmmth?” came the sleepy mumble.

“What are you doing down here?”

“Mmm, c’ldn’ sleep.”

Bruce’s chuckle was rusty from disuse, but real. “Looks like you fixed that problem.”

Damian hummed and buried his face in the fabric of the sofa.

Bruce lowered the duffel from his shoulder and slide his arms under his son. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

It was like picking up a broken toy, Damian letting out a high-pitched whine as he was lifted into the air. It was the most childish sound he had ever made, and Bruce smiled as he slung the boy up against his chest.

“‘m not a baby,” Damian protested.

“No, but you’re _my_ baby,” Bruce murmured as he planted a kiss in Damian’s hair.

Damian grumbled again, but didn’t try to escape, for which Bruce was grateful. Damian was right. He wasn’t a baby. Even in the month away, Damian had grown a little heavier, a little longer, a little older. He was, by many families’ standards, already too grown to be carried to bed.

Good thing this wasn’t most families.

Bruce was silent as he climbed the stairs, a wraith even in his own home. The animals trailed just as noiselessly. He counted the open doors as he passed, and the shadowed lumps tucked in beds glimpsed through the cracks. His children slept peacefully, sprawled or huddled according to their nature. All breathed. All lived. There was just one more he needed to see, but that would have to wait until morning.

In Damian’s room, the animals leapt onto the bed and watched patiently as Bruce bent and tried to detach the boy’s arms from around his neck.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “you need to let go.”

Damian yawned widely, eyes crinkling tight. “I think I should stay w’ you.”

Bruce stopped tugging. “Oh?”

“I—” another yawn “—could not sleep in my bed earlier, but did on th’ couch. Clearly th’—” a third yawn, even wider than the previous two “—bed is the problem.”

Bruce grunted and hauled his son back up into his arms. “Well, I can’t argue with that logic, now can I.”

Damian hummed contentedly.

Bruce didn’t bother to change. His clothes would need to be washed anyways, or possibly just thrown out, and his sheets could be dealt with at the same time. Rather than fuss with it all, he pulled back the comforter and climbed into bed, Damian’s arms still around his neck. The animals followed, and Bruce was too tired to care.

He tucked his boy under his chin and held him close, the cat settling against Damian’s back and the dog in the crook of Bruce’s knees. His own home. His own bed. His own son. The smell of familiar detergent and the welcome creaking of a house settling in the chill of the night. He had missed this.

Bruce was teetering on the verge of sleep when Damian spoke again.

“Father?”

Bruce grunted.

“You were gone a long time.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll stay for a while this time?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

A pause.

“Father?”

“Mm.”

“I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”


End file.
